Twenty-One Days (Daniel Pitt #1)(8)

‘Well, what is it?’ Ottershaw asked.

‘I was thinking about loading a gun,’ Daniel said, closing the front door behind him.

Ottershaw’s eyebrows shot up. ‘My dear boy, please . . .’

‘No.’ Daniel blushed at his clumsiness. ‘I mean, what would you touch?’

‘The butt, probably the trigger guard, probably the barrel. But there were no prints on any of them.’

‘And the shell casing?’

‘Ah! They only brought me the shell casing afterwards. Different young constable. I see what you mean.’ His face was suddenly filled with enthusiasm. ‘Quite possibly, the casing – in fact, for certain. If he did not wear gloves to handle the gun itself, then he would not to handle the shell. Awkward things, gloves, for fine work. I cannot even write my name legibly with gloves on.’ He looked rueful. ‘Or without, for that matter,’ he added, backing into the hall and towards the stairs. ‘Let me get dressed, and we will have a look. I work in my cellar, you know. I had it converted into my laboratory. Wonderful places, cellars. Nobody bothers you. Would offer you a cup of tea, but we must get to work, dear boy. Wouldn’t actually know how to make one, and I’m not wakening the butler. Lives on the top floor, and sleeps like the dead. Just give me a few minutes.’

Actually, it took him ten minutes and he found Daniel still standing in the hall when he returned.

‘Oh dear. Should have asked you to wait in the sitting room,’ he said. ‘But the fire is out anyway. Not really comfortable. Now come with me, and we’ll see what we can find.’

He led the way to a cellar door, switched on an electric light, and led the way down the fairly steep steps.

Daniel followed, and was immediately in a different world. There were glass jars, tubes, and retorts everywhere. All kinds of instruments were laid out in cases. Bottles with carefully labelled substances made it for the moment look like a sweet shop. There were various pieces of equipment, most of which Daniel could not name. And in a wide space by itself, at the far end, a wood-burning, round-bellied stove. It still retained some heat and, although below ground, the room was neither chilly nor damp.

Ottershaw noticed Daniel’s surprise. ‘Ah!’ he said with satisfaction. ‘You took me for an eccentric, didn’t you? Not at all. Most practical man. Science doesn’t lie, we merely misunderstand her sometimes. We find what we expect to find, or worse still, what we want to.’

He led the way over to a filing cabinet, produced keys from his pocket, and opened the locked section. He withdrew a file, and from the bottom of the drawer a gun wrapped in muslin. ‘See!’ he said, like a conjurer about to begin a trick. ‘We shall now examine the shell casing very carefully, and see what we have.’ With that, he pulled on cotton gloves, removed the gun from its wrapping, along with the separately wrapped shell casing.

‘What is the file?’ Daniel asked.

‘Why, a picture of the prints we took of Mr Blackwell, so we might compare them with the ones we were hoping to find on the gun, of course.’

‘But we didn’t find any,’ Daniel pointed out.

Ottershaw gave a sharp, wry look. ‘No, dear boy, and this is only of use to us if we find on the casing some that are not Mr Blackwell’s. If, after all, we find some that are, it’s a very different matter indeed. Now, are you sure you wish me to look?’

Daniel thought only for a moment. His decision would be irreversible, and he was gambling with Blackwell’s life. If he was innocent, it was his only chance. If he was guilty, he was lost. If Daniel did nothing, it was time that he faced the fact that he could not save Blackwell. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Better be damned for action than inaction.’

Ottershaw gave him a brief, tight smile, his face dramatically lit and appearing out of proportion in the fixed lamplight of the laboratory. Then he turned and began to work in absolute silence, except for the faint click of the metal, as he picked up the casing on a stick and wedged the end of the stick into a vice.

Daniel stared in fascination as Ottershaw opened a box of powder, dipped a brush into it, and then lightly dusted the shell casing, leaving a residue on it. He moved closer and drew in his breath sharply. There were tiny lines forming patterns on the surface of the metal.

Ottershaw breathed out slowly. It was only a faint sigh, but he was clearly on the brink of discovery. ‘Not yet!’ he warned. ‘There are fingerprints, but whose?’

Daniel nearly answered, then realised that Ottershaw was talking to himself. The man’s face was alive with the intensity of exploration. This was his art, his miracle.

Ottershaw ignored Daniel entirely now, absorbed in study through a magnifying glass.

Daniel held his breath.

‘Possible . . .’ Ottershaw said at last. ‘They are like Blackwell’s, but there are differences. Yes, definite differences. See – here.’ He moved back from the table, gesturing towards both the photographs of Blackwell’s prints and the print on the casing. ‘Look – there are whorls . . .’ He pointed with the tip of a small, sharp instrument. ‘Look.’

Daniel peered at it and saw fine lines in almost a circle.

‘See?’ Ottershaw urged.

‘Yes.’

‘And those are Blackwell’s that we took before. See where the thumbs are almost the same?’